Midnight Snacks
by DemonSurfer
Summary: Short, semi-unconnected drabbles spawned from one word prompts. Some dark, some light. Current words: "Enlightenment", "Loyal", "Bonds". Current theme: "Command Trine". Always accepting new prompts.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Recently on my RP account on Tumblr, a Headcanon meme came by. It was simply "put a word in my ask and I will write a headcanon about it for my muse". Not feeling in the mood for headcanon, I decided to write a drabble for each word I was given instead. However, I found this was a lot more fun than I had expected, especially as I was given the freedom to write whatever I like.

So it's a simple deal. You want me to write a drabble, send me a word. Any word. You can suggest how you want it written, but no specifics please. The first batch are all Skyfire, since that's who the RP account is of, but I'll take prompts for any character. Some will be long, some will be short. I'll try to post them in sets of three, unless I have a really outstanding word.

* * *

_"Vindicated"_

When they finally caught up to him, the Energon splashed onto his frame had already dried into crusty patches. He appeared to be docile, a sentry of splotched purple and pristine white, but they weren't taking any chances. The twin frontliners tackled his unresisting frame to the ground, restraining him until the stasis cuffs had been snapped onto his wrists, and even then they were wary to release him when the Prime stepped forth. The former scientist finally drew his dead optics from the mangled remains of red and white, looking up into his Prime's face with no hint of apology or remorse.

"He deserved it."

* * *

_"Penance"_

They called it penance.

What he had done was wrong, they said. War is war, but murder is something else entirely. To rob another of his spark, to rip it from his body body while he was defenseless… it had been murder, and he must pay penance for it.

There had been some defense for his actions. A half-hearted revolt, pleas for mercy. This was war, and an advantage was an advantage. His actions had been fueled by rage and hate, but the results had been fortunate. The penalty should be lessened.

They said it was murder, and that he should pay penance, and he did.

The shuttle looked over his shoulder, examining the stumps where his wings used to be, and tried to ignore the way his spark screamed for the sky.

They called it penance.

* * *

_"Agony"_

They had taken the sky.

He knew, logically, scientifically, it was still there. If he stepped from his hole and asked, they would take him outside. They would show him that the sun still rose, that the stars still existed, that there was nothing above and below and around the planet but cold and empty space.

It didn't matter. To him, they had taken the sky.

He would wake up, sometimes, turbines whining in memory of flight. He would remember what it was like to fall through an atmosphere, fire licking at his plating. He would remember what it was like to use a plant's gravity to speed his own flight. He would remember the cold, and empty, and sheer _beauty _of the void.

It was painful. A prickling agony that only grew worse as the cycles ticked on. Even when he could no longer remember the designations of his guards, he could remember what it felt like to ride the wind.

They had taken the sky, and replaced it with a cloth backdrop. His life would end here, underground, where the sky was nothing but a painful, burning memory that would consume everything.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Not some of the stronger ones, though Wind is okay. Feel free to suggest a prompt!

* * *

_"Dependency"_

In a relationship, there was always a dependent partner.

It ranged from being a simply tag-a-long to full on parasitism. The partner that would hang back, joining in activities but never initiating their own. The partner who would allow the other to do most of the work, stepping in at the last moment to take partial credit.

He had always thought he was the independent. It had been his job to risk life and limb getting to distant planets, expending fuel and navigating debris. It had been up to his partner to take samples and hide in his cargo hold when things got too tough.

One led, and the other would follow. Simple.

Up until he realized that his partner had moved on. He was successful, self-confident, and living. While he could not tear his mind from what had been, from his life before the ice and snow.

One led, and the other followed, and he realized that perhaps he'd had their relationship all wrong.

* * *

_"Wind "_

He wasn't used to wind.

The flow of air over plating, like a lover's gentle caresses, was an almost foreign thing to him. It tickled and picked at imperfections, stroking over his wings and nosecone. It was a gentle touch, a friendly pat.

There was no wind in space. No gentle hands to worship his frame. There were solar storms and solar winds, great bursts of energy that required the utmost concentration to dance and twist and whirl upon. There was no kindness in space, just harsh gasps and coughs that threatened to rip the wings from his frame.

While the wind of an atmosphere was like a childhood sweetheart, a lover with feather-light kisses, the wind of space was a passionate mate, filled with bites and slaps and screams that rode the border between pain and pleasure.

He was not used to wind, and he preferred his abusive lover over it.

* * *

_"Soundless"_

Space was soundless.

There was no atmosphere to convey sound. No tiny molecules to vibrate and rattle and make themselves heard. His vocalizer would short and fill your mouth with energon long before he would ever hear himself.

There was _noise_, if you knew where to find it. Radio waves and electromagnetic waves and x-rays. There was color, the burning of gasses and dust and they melted and fused and became more than their original state. But there was no sound.

Sound was a strange thing. Without it, one started disbelieving. An explosion lost its impact when you could only see and feel it. EM waves and radio waves could be turned into sound, but they weren't _sound_ itself.

Sometimes he would land on a planet or asteroid, burning precious fuel for reentry and takeoff, just for the want of sound. First would come the roar of atmosphere over his frame, steadily increasing the closer he came to the surface. Then would be the thud, the rumble of the earth as he landed. Gas giants had storms, the crackle of lighting and its following sonic boom. Ice would snap under his weight, liquid would rush and trickle and sing to him.

Space was soundless, and sometimes, he needed to find his own sound, to remember that it even existed.

* * *

_"Death"_

The first time he saw a star die, he nearly cried.

It was an old star, swollen and heavy with its own age. It had been giving off pulses of wind and energy, a last hurrah before its inevitable collapse. It was dangerous, and he knew it was dangerous, but he still wanted to see. A simulation wasn't enough.

There was a was a moment of stillness, like the pause of systems right before transformation. Even from his vantage point millions of miles away, he could still feel it.

The explosion was sudden, violent, and nearly takes his wings off. He's thrown around on a gale of pure energy, his plating burning and straining not to come apart. Only when he thinks that he can't possibly take much more does it finally ease off. The storm never quite abates, but it lessens enough for him to see what had become of the star.

A swirling cloud of gas and dust and metallic elements, swirling around a bright pinpoint. The only remainder of the old star, and it will continue to add to the cloud for years to come. He wants to fly in that cloud, to dance among the brilliant colors and searing heat, but he knows that the nova is too young to play with. Maybe in a few years it will be mature enough, but at the moment he is content to watch it unfurl its banners.

The death of a star releases the building blocks of the entire universe, and without it there would be no life. So he enjoys this miracle of science, as the star's legacy will not end with its demise.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **I rather liked this set. "Alone" is definitely Skyfire, but "Repetition"? It seems more like Sideswipe or Red Alert to me. Feel free to suggest a prompt!

* * *

_"Alone"_

He had been awake.

In the first few minutes, he had been unconscious, but he had been woken by the searing pain all over his frame. Wings twisted, nosecone smashed… all an agony that was only emphasized by the ice and snow beginning to creep over his frame. He had tried to transform, to call for help, but he was too badly damaged to do more than emit bursts of static. He had tried, though, until even the static had faded.

He watched the stars until the snow had covered his external sensors, and even then he had counted the minutes. His chronometer had been damaged, or maybe he had turned it off.

He had been bleeding, at first, and the lack of fuel had made him woozy, but the ice soon sealed the fractured lines. He had been cold, at first, but when his wings were completely encased in ice he had stopped feeling it.

Every moment became counted by the pulses of his spark, by the rise and fall of the storm outside his prison. It was dark when he had crashed, and it remained dark for a long time, and then it was light, and it was light for a long time as well. The barest warmth of the sun melted the snow, and the water froze into ice where it touched his frame. He couldn't feel his wings.

He knew he was falling unconscious. The errors in his HUD would increase, and he used the errors as a measurement as well. Something, anything, to convince himself that time was still moving with him.

His HUD glitched, and there was nothing but static.

Sometimes there were sounds, but it was mostly silent save for the roar and whisper of the wind. He knew he was falling unconscious, and he was staying unconscious for longer and longer, but he couldn't bring himself to care. The ice had seeped into his lines, into his frame, seeking to extinguish the warmth of his spark. The ice was in his processor, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

He was alone, and he kept falling unconscious. He would die out here, and the first realization of that fact chilled his spark, but now he didn't care.

His processor glitched, and everything became static.

* * *

_"Repetition"_

_One-two-three-four._

It is a pattern, a steady tap tap tapping.

_One-two-three-four_.

He doesn't remember when he first noticed it, but now that he has, it's all he can hear. The tapping, the drumming.

_One-two-three-four_.

He thought it was water, at first. A leak in a metal roof, under a mountain of stone. Implausible, but not impossible. The ship was old and cracked, metal plates no longer meeting perfectly. Surely there was a spot where water could get through-

_One-two-three-four_.

-but it's not water. Water can't follow him, can't echo from one end of the ship to the other. It wasn't oil, wasn't energon. The chattering of denta, the beating of pedes, the knocking of dead servos.

_One-two-three-four_.

It was a tapping, but

_One-_

more like a scratching

_two-_

a clawing at his mind

_three-_

that wouldn't stop.

_four._

* * *

_"Entropy"_

It was inevitable. As unavoidable as rust on a wound. There was always a peak, after building bigger and bigger and bigger, where there was nowhere higher to climb. Where the weight of the structure exceeded its strength and, with the screaming metal on metal, bolt sheering, stone crumbling, it would all begin to fall apart.

There was blame. Hate. If they had done a better job. If we had more food, more land, more equality. Rallies would be called. Flags would be burned. Grand words would be spoken with silver tongues, advocating peace and equality and the need to fight for what was owed. The system is flawed, and it must be overturned.

Inequality leads to unrest. Unrest leads to complaints, to agreements, to a united front. A united front is a threat, an opposing force. The establishment rests on a crumbling foundation, clinging to tradition with skeletal fingers, unwilling to recognize what will come.

Martyrs are made. Battle-lines are drawn.

In the end, there is nothing left but the smoking remains of a once-proud structure. Rusted metal and spilled blood mark a monument to the dead on a barren world, torn apart by its own children.

It will be rebuilt. As inevitable as rust on a wound, it will be rebuilt.

But it will not be the same.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** The prompt 'Enlightenment' was suggested by Kokua Aviatrix. I was a bit stuck on who to use for it, until I thought of giving it and two others the theme of 'Command Trine'. As always, feel free to suggest a prompt.

* * *

_"Enlightenment" _

The first time he attended a rally, the mech speaking was a miner, and the sky had been clear. He had listened for a few minutes, nodding his head along with the crowd, but his spark hadn't been in it. His place was assured, his future certain. He didn't need this message of change, of rebellion. Change was for those who were too weak to advance on their on. The mechs and femmes that needed to have the bar lowered for them.

He was strong, and he didn't need change. The mech was dragged away by the Enforcers, still preaching his message.

Change was coming.

The second time he had attended a rally, the mech speaking was a gladiator, and the sky had been full of stars. This time it hadn't been his idea, but that of his partner's to come, to listen to the stirrings of change. The system had begun to weigh on him, weigh on them both, pinching at wings and fuel tanks. There were rumors. Speculations. He had listened, and the words he had heard were enough to twist his tanks with unease.

Still, he was strong. And while change would be recognized, maybe even welcomed and encouraged, it wouldn't be by him. He and his partner had worlds to discover, and they had left before the mech had finished speaking.

Change was coming.

The third time he had attended a rally, the mech speaking was a leader, and the sky had been ablaze with the remains of a burning city. He had listened with optics wide, caked in the blood of those unable to run and fly fast enough to get away from the destruction. His spark was laid open, blank and accepting of any and everything the mech said.

He was strong. A new world was coming, and he would rise up to meet it with open arms. He wouldn't allow the change to overtake him, to bowl him over. He was the first to stand before the mech proudly, wings high and gleaming with their new brand, when the grand speeches were over and the world was overturned.

Change was _here_.

* * *

_"Loyal"_

It wasn't perfect.

He knew- he _knew_ it wasn't perfect. It couldn't be perfect. Where could perfection be found at the bottom of an ocean, in a leaking and rusting hull of a ship?

The called him loyal. Loyal; a synonym to mean blind, ignorant, a fool. The whispers, the rumors, the evidence. He had to be a fool, to ignore what was going on in ill-hidden shadows. He had to be ignorant, to not see how their fuel levels dropped and his actions only stirred up anger in those without the energy to spare for it. He must be _blind_, to miss the dents and cuts and ragged breathing from that one corner of the medbay every other orn.

Loyalty was his excuse, his shield. It earned him a shred of favor when his comrades felt scorn. He was loyal and a fool, and he wasn't worth the effort to discipline.

He wasn't.

It was almost insulting, sometimes. Of course he wasn't blind. Of course he wasn't ignorant. He knew his leader, knew his faction, and he could scarcely miss what went on behind doors only half-shut.

But it was all he had.

His whole life had been dedicated to the rusting ship at the bottom of the sea. His talents, honed in battles for the brand on his wings. His mind, bent into pretzels to cope and adapt and advance. It _had_ to be perfect, because he had given it everything he had to give.

If he looked now, if he unplugged his audios and listened, he would know. The excuses and defenses and forgiveness for the unforgivable would stop, and he would be left with _nothing. _He wasn't strong. He wasn't smart. He was young and dumb and loyal and it was all he had left.

His entire life, summed up in one word, and he would use that word as both his sword and shield until the day it was taken from him.

* * *

_"Bonds"_

He has regrets.

Deep regrets, like thick chains stained with rust and energon, wrapped around his frame and over his wings and into his spark. They cut deeply, restricting, pulling. He wants to run, to hide, to escape from the heavy chains that tie him down, but he can't.

There is only one mech responsible for his chains of duty, and that mech is himself.

One chain is connected to his wings, purple emblems like splatters of fresh fuel on the battlefield. A false god he gave his spark to, long ago in the ashes of a burning city. The path was right and solid and secure, and he believed in it with everything that he had. Even when the path became obscured with the blood and rust of innocents, he believed.

Not anymore. The proud symbol of honor and change has been corrupted, flaking off until only the shackles of regret are left.

One chain leads to his hands. Dark and scratched, his grip so tight that it warps the metal of his gun. His hands, that have wrapped around the throat of a femme just trying to defend her mate. His hands, which pulled the trigger on a gun and destroyed a fuel depot before starving mechs could reach it, just because they were the enemy. His hands, which should purple and not black, a dark and discolored purple from the fuel that stains them, a reminder of all the lives he has taken in the name of his cause.

Even if he cut off his hands, it would not erase the history that covers them. He is marked, and there is no way to remove the proof of his damnation.

One chain is tied to his spark, deep into the core where he cannot pull it out without killing himself. It links him to his comrades, wings in black and white, that he swore brotherhood to. The chain is thin, and it is meant to be broken should white or black or blue fall in battle, but it is strong, as strong as his resolve. He _chose_ to take on this burden, to stand before his brothers and act as their shield. No matter how far he flies, how hard he fights, how much he despairs, this chain will not be severed by his hand.

He would leave, but for the chain in his spark that ties him to those more loyal and ambitious and stubborn than he is. As long as they kneel before their false god, he can do nothing but stand behind them.

The chains are tight, binding, choking. They cut off his air until his vision swims, darkness pulling at the corners of his optics and mind, and where they touch his plating it bleeds. The chains lead to a single point, a monster with a silver tongue, and he can do nothing but kneel before the instrument of his own demise.

This was his choice. No matter his regrets, no matter the outcome of his actions, this was his choice.


End file.
